


The Way We Get By

by rudddddddy



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst and Humor, Arguing, Drug Use, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, M/M, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 08:34:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5578678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudddddddy/pseuds/rudddddddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on the run from authorities, Stan meets Rick for the first time at a Flesh Curtains performance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way We Get By

Stanley Pines stood in the middle of the alcohol aisle, looking at a case of beer in front of him. He was in some dingy gas station in the middle of nowhere, where the sand from outside caked in a thin layer across the floor.

He’d lost the cops long ago, flooring it almost halfway across the state until he had to stop for gas. His heart was still racing, his nerves were shot, and above all else, he was  _exhausted_. His plan for the rest of his time in this small, shitty town in the middle of New Mexico was to find a room, get black-out drunk, and take a year-long nap - in that order.

But he was still weary of being found, seeing as he was wanted in dozens of states for petty theft just like the one he was tempted to commit. He wasn’t even sure if it was worth nicking the beer at this crappy store and making a run for it,  _again_. He was the youngest person there, and his presence already warranted a stink eye from the elderly cashier behind the counter.

 _Yeah, keep staring, bub, and I’ll really give you something to look at_ , Stan thought bitterly, but knew it was useless. The beer was probably shitty, anyways. It’d be a waste of time and what little money he had to his name.

And yet…

There was that familiar thought that he  _needed_  it. it was just beer - not even _good_ beer - and the old guy was onto him. However, with so many years on the road and a “kill or be killed” mentality that’s followed him from New Jersey, the tic to steal it was overwhelming. Like so many other things he’s taken over the years - he doesn’t “need” it, but he’ll be damned if he goes without it.

“Anything I can help you with, sir…?”

Stan’s eyes shot to meet the clerk’s unamused gaze. He frowned. He could probably overpower him…he really wasn’t that big, but it wouldn’t matter, because Stan was bigger…

 _No_. Stan forced himself to shake his head, muttering a “No, thanks.”

The other squinted, and Stan noticed one of his eyes was foggy. He had a cataract, just like his father did. “Are you feeling alright? Do you need me to get someone for you?”

Stan shook his head quickly, and took a step back. His sneakers squeaked against the floor, making the awkward silence between them painful. He swallowed. “No, thank you. Have a, uh, good day.”

“You do the same,” the old man called, but he was already striding towards the door. It  _ching_ ed pleasantly behind him,  _mocking_  him, and he mentally flipped it off.

Stan scowled on his way to the car, his cold hands shoved deep in his pockets. _This has gone too far…_

He had to shake away the memories of his father shoving a finger in his voice, of his father’s stern voice when he said “ _good-for-nothin’_ ” and “ _bad influence_ ” and “ _disappointment_.”

He had to shake away the thoughts he had of shoving the clerk down, grabbing as much liquor as he could carry, and making a run for it.

He had to forget about how right his dad was, how right every cop and news reporter was, when they said he was a “bad guy.”

_Maybe they were right._

Peeling angrily out on the road, it drove about five minutes before he remembered that he hadn’t gotten gas.

_

Stan Pines had spent a grand total of five years on the road.

That’s five years living in his car, five years of stealing food, five years of selling shitty drugs on the side, five years of knocking back shots to forget the week, and five years of not hearing a single word from his brother. He supposed he shouldn’t have been so surprised about the amount of pain he would experience in those five years, but nothing could have prepared him for the gravity of his mistakes and the consequences of his actions.

Oh, how he was  _stupidly_ hopeful things would eventually work out between them - how confident he was that he’d become a millionaire faster than he would have time to even miss them. If he was standing face-to-face with his eighteen-year-old-self right then, he would have punched the optimism right out of him and told him the truth: the things that no one tells you about the lonely life on the road. Like what to say to drug dealers to get the best shit, how to steal a sandwich without getting caught, and what prison was  _really_  like.

Not that he even had the answers to most of his questions. But even if he did, he was already five years too late.

Normally when Stan felt like this, he’d hole up in some dingy motel room and drink the night away. However, without any drugs to keep him occupied and his skin itching to go out, he went on the hunt for some bar that might take his mind off of things for a while. He couldn’t trust himself to be alone to very long when he got like this.

Almost a half mile away from his motel, he parked his car in the far corner of the parking lot. The last thing he needed was cops to run his fake license plates and ruin his night of drinking.

Going in, the bar was hazy with smoke and bright neon lights. The lot outside was barely half the amount of the people inside. His shoulders brushed past people and he coughed back smoke that wafted in front of his face.

 _This was a mistake_ , the thought wiggled in his brain, but he pushed it back. He wasn’t sure if being drunk around a room packed with strangers was better than drinking alone, but he could deal with it. It was better than walking out and wasting time trying to find another place. That would defeat the purpose of getting drunk as fuck as soon as possible, and he wanted an early start.

Thankfully there were more people on the main floor than the bar, and he found a handful of open stools.

“What’ll it be, man?” the bartender called out to him.

“Whatever’s the cheapest and the fastest to make,” Stan said, and the guy nodded. A moment later, a glass slid across the surface and Stan caught it in his palm.

It was always good to make nice with bartenders, Stan came to realize over the years. Not only did you get served faster, but if they paid little attention to you, then you could drink well beyond the legal limit without them noticing. That was always Stan’s experience, anyways. It had always been easy for him to melt into the background, unnoticed, when he really wanted to. And tonight was one of those nights.

He sipped slowly, milking his time for what it was worth. It’d take a bulldozer to make him from this seat.

“ - in time!” someone shouted beside him.

“Thank fucking god, too,” another guy shouted over the bar’s music. “I’ve been waiting forever to see them live, dude.”

“I heard the guitarist was  _wild_  - crowd-diving, bringing people with him on stage - crazy shit, bro!”

Drowning out the chattering voices from behind him, he took a deeper drink, coughing in his hand at the burn. After he wiped his mouth, his eyes caught a poster that was plastered behind the bar with the words _“the Flesh Curtains.”_  

On it were three…Well, Stan wasn’t sure  _what_  to call them. One of them looked like a cat, but it was standing on its hind legs with drum sticks clutched in his paws with a wild grin. He wasn’t sure that it was real, but he’d never seen anything like that before. It looked real, and he blamed it on whatever concoction he was drowning himself in as the cause for his hallucinations.

The second was more normal-looking, if he could say that. He looked like a regular guy, if you want to take out the fact that he wore wings and a crown full of feathers like he was some kind of weird bird-and-human mutation. It must have just been his get-up, Stan thought - some bands did that. And as the lead singer, he could probably do whatever the fuck he wanted.

The third guy wasn’t the strangest one on the poster, but he was far from normal. He was a skinny guy with wild blue hair clutching a guitar and a smirk on his face. His outfit was probably worse than the other - with tight black pants and a weird-looking shirt that slopped down to show off his bare chest and abdomen, all the way to his belly button.

In the bottom of the poster had the name of the bar and the day’s date, along with the words “secret show.” 

Everyone was there to see _them?_  Stan couldn’t help but shake his head. Where in the hell had music gone? Where was the good old days, where the Bee Gees and Lionel Richie were popular?

Stan then tried forgot that he just said “ _the good old days”_  to himself like he was already a cranky, old man when someone crossed the stage.

Immediately, the crowd roared all around him. Some pushed against Stan on their way to the front of the stage, but it wasn’t worth getting bent out of shape about it. Watching with lazy eyes, he saw the group of people condense closely to the stage like a pack of wild animals. Jesus, and they weren’t even  _out_  yet…

“Hello, hello, hellooo!” the announcer shouted. “How is everybody doing tonight?!”

Immediately, the bar erupted into screams and shouts. On stage, the man - who looked to be about Stan’s age, if not younger - nodded with a smirk. He wore a shirt of the band, along with an almost blue tint to his skin and - Stan squinted, leaning forward. In the middle of his forehead, it looked almost like a third  _eye_.

Shaking his head, Stan looked at the drink in his hand. Okay, so maybe he should have been a  _bit_  more specific with what he wanted in this…

“Well, this waaas supposed to be a  _secret_  concert,” the guy said into the mic. “But I guess the secret’s out, huh guys? Alright, enough with the small talk…who’s ready to hear some motherfucking  _flesh curtains!”_

If there was any room in the crowd before, it was gone in seconds as they pushed closer. Stan was surprised that they could move at all. Man, whoever these guys were, they must have been popular to draw out such a crowd.

Suddenly all the lights went out on the mainstage. The bar was still lit, but it was difficult to see the stage from where Stan sat. Dark figures moved around hurriedly, setting up mic Stands and the drum set as the crowd screeched. He was afraid that they would all be hoarse before the band even went on stage when a deep voice spoke through the speakers.

“One, two…one, two,  ** _three - !”_**

A  _thwack_  from one of the drums cued a series of multicolored lights to flood the stage as music ripped through the bar, and right in front of Stan was the oddest assortment of character’s he’s ever seen in his life.

Apparently the cat  _was_  real, though Stan couldn’t begin to wrap his mind around it even if it was right in front of him. And he could carry a wild beat, something that boggled his mind.

Just to the left of it was the bird-man, bobbing his head to the fast tempo. And when he opened his mouth to sing - Stan’s eye brows rose.  _Wow…_ he was surprisingly good. Deep and nearly monotone if not for the fact that he could carry a tune. He tried to come up with someone he could compare him to, but the short list of artists he listened to left him dry. He wasn’t even sure half the stuff he was saying was even English, some gurgles and chirps that sounded, ironically, like bird calls.

The last one on the far right not only caught Stan’s eye, but made it stay there. His outfit almost made Stan blush, if he was the type of person to blush easily. The poster obviously didn’t do him justice at all.

His blue, wavy hair was even wilder in person than on print, and instead of the low-cut blue shirt, his upper half was completely bare. On each wrist were the same spiked leather bands, but instead of a choker, he wore a rosary that dangled down his chest, hitting the electric guitar in his hands. He held the most stage presence out of all of them, a cocky grin plastered on his face and a confidence that was almost visible.

But it was difficult to focus on the oddity of it all because - as the music thumped heavily from the stage and the drums kept up with a beat that was almost inhuman - Stan had to admit that the music was… _good_. He understood why they were so popular - and specifically, the guitarist.

Males and females alike shrieked as he walked up and down the stage, flicking his tongue out to the crowd suggestively and rolling his hips against the guitar. Stan would have been embarrassed if it didn’t  _work_ so well for him. He was surprised to admit to himself that, even skinny as hell and not conventionally attractive, his self-confidence radiated off of him.

Well, at least he caught  _Stan’s_  attention.

He bought a second helping of whatever the bartender gave him before, slowly nursing it as the flesh curtains played out their set. Most of their music was past-paced and did quite a number on Stan’s ears, but a couple were slower and he was floored with how deep the lead singer’s voice could go. It rumbled like a freight train as the crowd raised their hands, bobbing heads.

However, Stan couldn’t help but keep his eyes on anyone but the guitarist for very long. There was just… _something_  about him. He didn’t do much beyond hopping around on stage like a lunatic and making obscene moves while playing. That, and he had a bottle of tequila on stage that he periodically took a swig out of that had his fans go wild.

He thought that they might have connected eyes more than a few times, but _everyone_ claimed that they shared a “moment” with a band member whenever they looked anywhere in their direction. Stan wasn’t one of those people, and besides - he was probably looking at someone far more interesting than Stanley Pines, anyways.

All too soon, sooner than Stan realized, the show was over. It was almost midnight, and their last number was an audience favorite. On the last note, everyone cheered and even Stan offered them a hand. That second - he was almost sure of it - the blue-haired man looked right at him and  _winked_.

This time, Stan averted his gaze to the floor. When they were finally off the stage, a few stragglers waited around for them to come out to greet them. But after it became apparent that they weren’t coming out to meet their fans, they left soon after.

For the first time since Stan got there the bar was relatively quiet. It was still early - early for Stan at least - and he was hardly buzzed enough. The show was a nice surprise, but he didn’t fail to remember his mission to forget his hell of a week.

Not for the first time that day, Stan wondered how ford was doing. He wasn’t a praying man, but he hoped that whatever god was listening ignored Stan’s mistakes and let ford be happy.

Stan rubbed the middle of his forehead. He wished twin telepathy was real so he could tell his brother  _you’re a piece of shit_  and  _I miss you goddamn it_  and  _Jesus, do you only care about yourself?_  And  _I hope you’re happy without me fucking up everything all the time._

Christ, it felt like the entire world weighed down on his shoulders…

“Hey there, stud.”

Stan looked over, surprised to find the blue-haired guy from the stage staring at him. He looked around, not for comedic effect, really, but  _c’mon_ \- was this guy really talking to  _him?_

“You talkin’ to me, bub?” Stan asked for confirmation, one brow quirking up. 

“Well, I’m definitely not talking to th-the bartender. I have my eyes set on someone…a little m-more up my alley.” It was impossible to miss his stare, rolling his gaze on Stan from the bottom to the top, a smirk on his lips.

“Oh.” Stan could feel the tips of his ears burning. He paused awkwardly for a second. It was strange to think that the same man from the stage was standing right in front of him, in the flesh.

Shouldn’t he be long gone by now? Hell, didn’t he have an endless line of groupies to fuck around with instead of talking to a nobody like Stan Pines?

Stan took a slow drink from his glass, avoiding his gaze. He tried to control his shock when the rock star slid onto the barstool right next to him, smelling like sweat and hard liquor.

For the brief minute he conversed with the bartender - flirting with him despite his previous comment of disinterest - Stan was able to take a closer look at him.

Instead of a bare chest, he changed into a tight black shirt that might as well be second skin, and his rosary from before was off. He paid attention to his posture, how he held his body like the whole world was his stage, and the way he talked with the bartender as if they had been friends their whole lives. His skin was noticeably darker up close - a brown tone to it that Stan hadn’t noticed under the bright stage lights. His ears were pierced thrice on both earlobes and up to the top of his helix.

This guy wore the “punk” label to a tee - Stan could even see traces of makeup around his dark eyes.

Stan didn’t realize he was staring until the silence between them became awkward. He took a long drink out of his glass to appear uninterested.

Suddenly, the guy jerked his right hand up to him.

“Rick Sanchez,” he greeted.

Yep. He  _definitely_  had on eyeliner, and some dark makeup on his eyelids.

Stan stared at “Rick’s” outstretched hand, debating whether or not to use his real name. But after a moment, he decided he didn’t really give a shit. Besides, this guy played guitar in a metal band for a living - how dangerous could he really be?

“Stan Pines,” he finally muttered, shaking Rick’s hand. It was bony and slightly cold, but had a surprisingly firm grip.

“So, Pines,” he said, taking a slow drink, “Wh-what did you think of the show? Pretty sick, right?”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Stan shrugged. “I uh, don’t usually listen to music like yours. But it was good - you guys were really good.”

“I know,” he said with that perfect level of cockiness that Stan couldn’t help but chuckle at. “I didn’t figure you listened our stuff. y-you don’t look like our typical fan.”

“Heh, that makes sense. This is the first time I’ve seen you guys.”

Rick’s unibrow shot up in amused surprise. “No shit. What’re you in here for then?”

“Same as the rest of these schmucks.” Stan jabbed a thumb down the bar. “I’m here to get shitfaced.” 

 Sudden burst of unattractive laughter left Rick, making Stan relax in his seat. Being star-struck wasn’t something that suited him, and this rock star guy was surprisingly easy to talk to. He  _liked_ him, Stan realized, and he had a feeling Rick liked him, too. 

Stan took another sip of liquid courage. “But what’s the deal with the other guys? Like, the lead singer. Is he wearing… some kind of costume?”

“Uuuhh, yeah. S-sure.” he took another sip and smacked his lips. “We’ll go with that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“ _Weeeell_ , how do you feel about th-the universe?”

Stan frowned. “Uh…. I don’t?”  _What does this have to do with anything?_

Rick sneered. “Nothing? That’s hard to believe.”

“Why?”

“Sh-shit, it’s all around you. it-it’s everywhere.” He swung his hand around in a broad gesture, nearly knocking over his drink. “Y-you - are you gonna tell me that you don’t think about something as big as the motherfucking universe, Pines? With infinite galaxies and billions and billions of planets and a universe without an edge? You can’t tell me, honestly, that that shit doesn’t keep you up at night.”

Stan grew uncomfortable, hearing similar lines echo in his head with familiarity. _Jesus, this guy reminds me of…_

He leaned on his forearms. “Well, to be honest with you, I have bigger fish to fry.”

“ _Really_  now.”

“Yeah.” Stan shrugged. “I’m no astronaut. Hell, I didn’t even graduate high school. A goddamn monkey’s more qualified than me to be put into space, y'know?”

Another ugly laugh left Rick’s mouth, shocking Stan enough to chuckle.  

“Why worry about something I’ll never go out and experience? I’d rather stay on planet earth. But, that’s just me.” he shrugged again, lifting up one shoulder.

Rick suddenly clapped him on the back, his hand resting on his shoulder a moment. “Stan Pines, I gotta say, I like you already.”

Stan bit his cheek. This guy was…different than how he thought he’d be like. He was cocky and kind of weird - okay,  _really_  weird. But he had an energetic quality about him that amused Stan. And as much as he hated to admit it, this guy reminded him of his twin brother. Rick was smarter than he looked, and he briefly wondered if maybe he had made a mistake trusting him so soon.

“Alright, alright already.” Pushing Rick’s hand off of him, he asked, “but what does all of this have to do with that lead singer of yours?”

Rick grinned at him, but not unkindly. “It means the universe is too big for a brain like yours to comprehend, tough guy.”

Stan couldn’t tell if he was supposed to be offended, but decidedly chose not to be. This guy obviously had a screw loose, but he could live with being in the dark about somethings. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“C'mon, stay for another round,” Rick said, signaling the bartender.

Stan started to shake his head. “I can’t - ”

“It’s on me.”

“Oh.” He faltered a moment. Could he really pass up on free drinks? 

When he looked back over to the blue-haired rock star, he made up his mind. “What the hell, man - why not.”

Rick relaxed into an easy grin. “F-fuck yeah, man.”

They spent the next hour talking, drinking, and at time, literally hanging off each other as they laughed their asses off. Stan had been with guys like Rick before, but he had to be a fucking professional alcoholic to hold so much liquor without throwing up. After one shot, Stan was done, but Rick gulped down two more and slurred his words, his stutter worsening. Eventually, he began to belch at every other word, which made Stan laugh too hard to care.

Rick sat slouched on the stool, both of his feet on the highest foot rests so his skinny legs opened up. Stan struggled to keep his eyes off Rick’s thin chest and his crotch…basically anywhere that was actually inappropriate to look.

“So…ya w-wanna get outta here?”

“Um…” Stan blinked his bleary eyes; he must have mishear him. “Whadduya mean by that?”

Rick cocked his brow before putting his right hand on Stan’s thigh. He jolted in his seat. “ _This_  clear enough for you, touuuUUGGHHgh guy?”

Stan’s heart suddenly beat so hard he was sure Rick could hear it. Moving away, he looked around with a frown. He may be pretty tipsy, but he was smart about his booze, and he had way more therewithal than the other by a mile. And,  _Jesus,_ if anyone saw… 

“Listen,” Stan said. “I’m not interested. I’m not, um…” He felt his face burn. He hated it when his face felt so hot, and it was worse when he was drunk. 

“ _Gay_ ,” Rick deadpanned, and Stan bristled at the word. “You mean you’re not gay.”

“Heh, uh, yeah,” he said awkwardly.

“Hey n-no pressure. I get it.” Rick took a swig from his beer and proceeded to burp loudly. “I-I-I’m not going to force you or-or anything, I’m not like that.”

A wave of relief fell over Stanley and he relaxed in his seat.

Rick looked him over. “But here’s a wuh-word of advice: that googly-eyed look y-you gave me? That could give anyone mixed signals, big guy.”

Stan blinked again.

“…'Mixed signals?‘” he repeated dumbly.

“Yeah. You were giving me serious ‘fuck me’ eyes when I was on stage.”

 _“What?_ ” If Stan’s face wasn’t on fire before, it certainly was then. "Like hell - ”

“YeeaauuUUGHHHH, you did - ”

“Man, shut the fuck up, before I punch you,” Stan snapped.

Rick then started  _laughing_ , which only served to piss Stan off even more until his hand darted to shake his shoulder, jostling his body.

Jjeez, I’m just meuuUGHHHss - messin’ with you, man, me- _yow_.” He shook his head. “I dunno if it’s th-the beer or the drugs, but fucking with you is the funniest shit.“

"I wouldn’t get used to it,” Stan said knocking his hand off his shoulder. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Reaching inside his jacket, he stuck a cigarette between his teeth and lit the end of it. Stan glowered at him. 

“I’m heading out. Birdperson’s probably shitting an egg wonderin’ wh-where I’m at.” Stan looked at him incredulously, but Rick hopped off the bar stool. Jesus, the guy was skinny  _and_  tall as hell. “But…there’s some good stuff at my place… if y-you got any fix needed fixin.’”

It took a moment for Stan to realize he was asking him about drugs, and he found himself shaking his head.

Stan, passing up on a chance to get high?  _Was he an idiot?_  Maybe, but he hardly knew this guy.

“Nah, I got some at my place,” he lied, ignoring the part in his brain telling to say yes. “I don’t experiment with shit with strangers, either. No offense.”

“Hm, pussy,” Rick muttered, then immediately held his hands up in mock surrender when Stan glared at him. “Sh-shit, dude. I’m kidding. You really gotta learn to lighten up or the pressure in your asshole is gonna m-make you shit diamonds.”

“Fuck off.” Stan drank the last of his beer and got off the barstool. Digging in his pockets for whatever monkey he scraped up, Rick suddenly outstretched his hand and shook his head. “I’m not a charity case, y'know,” he mumbled, but made no move to stop him.

“I’ll consider th-that as a 'thank you,’” Rick said, rolling his eyes.

Stan groaned and turned to leave. He wasn’t that drunk anymore, but hardly sober enough to drive. He just wanted to lay down and sleep his bad thoughts off. His motel was only down the street…

As soon as he stepped out the bar door, a hand gripped his arm. He wasn’t surprised to see Rick.

“Hey, take th-this with you.” before he could stop him, Rick stuffed a piece of paper in his jacket pocket. “It’s where we’re playing next. if you feel up to… _experimenting_ again, hit me up.”

Stan furrowed his eyebrows. He felt like “experimenting” had a bit double-meaning, but he nodded anyways. “Okay, uh…sure.”

“Hm, I sure hope so,” Rick said, blowing smoke in his face.

Stan frowned. "I could have really hit you back there, y’know.”

“I believe it.” Rick gave him one last once over. “See ya later, Pines.”

He turned at his heel, walking down the dimly lit sidewalk. Stan watched him for a few moments before turning his back, walking in the parking lot towards his car.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is hopefully going to be a fairly lengthy fic. These guys are really fun to write and I hope I'm doing them justice. I'm always open for honest critiques and I appreciate the reviews! Thank you for reading.


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